Dear Friends and Family,
After a good day at the office, where staff and patients continue to buoy my spirits, I just arrived at the hospital for my favorite job—Nancy’s “nursing assistant’s assistant.” (And pill holder, ice fetcher, mail reader, bathroom attendant, spirit booster, etc.)
Once again, there are two heads peaking from beneath the new pale-blue covers on Nancy’s bed. Both my girls are fast asleep, not even twitching when I burst into the room. I delicately kiss one bald head and one with flowing dirty-blonde tresses before quietly sinking into my bedside chair.
Jayna woke up a minute ago, rubbed her eyes, and smiled at my presence.
“Nice ‘doo, Dad,” she whispered.
I giggle at her surprise. After all, I’m The Worry Buster! My hair is freshly cut and, at least for one day, is neat and trim. My beard is shorter, too. Anything for my lady.
Minutes later now, Nancy sits up and squints, trying to get me in focus.
“Hi, Winnie. Your hair sure looks good. I like it. You let Stephanie really cut it this time. When did you get here?”
In the last couple of days, as one by one her meds have been discontinued, Nancy has been able to watch TV. But the chemotherapy has affected Nancy’s eyesight more than I thought. (My hair hasn’t looked good for a decade or more.)
My arrival marks the changing of the “guard.”
Jayna has now left to return to her Salt Lake City apartment. A thin slice of normalcy for her? (I can only hope as I ponder how to connect her with friends.)
How do I get her to a movie?
A bar?
Anyplace besides Room 842!
Am I up to making a few calls?
Meanwhile, it is my turn and I am excited for the time alone with my bride.
Our nurse, Denae, has given Nancy her night medicines. Our “other” certified nursing assistant, George, has taken vital signs and won’t return for four more hours. The IV bags are full and running. It should be a peaceful time given Nancy’s improvement. It’s the time of night that Nancy and I typically discuss the future—or potential lack thereof.
Most often, Nancy only speaks about Jaret and Jayna. I speak of Nancy. I cherish this indescribably close time when Nancy is feeling almost normal. For a few precious hours, there will only be the darkness outside, the quiet of our room, and Nancy and me.
Our nurse interrupted our discussion about Jayna; there was one last pill to swallow. But then the magic vanished and, in fact, I got scolded.
“Who said you could offer that candy to the nurses, Winnie? Charlie gave the box of candy to me, not you.”
I examine Nancy’s beautiful face, incredulous. She’s not kidding. Her eyes narrowed and her lower lip extended slightly more than its upper partner. My tears are tempered by a strange realization. Nancy must love me. As far as I know, I’m the only person who experiences her anger. And she needs to have anger.
Summary: We are adjusting to hospital life as best we can.
All our love,
Winnie